


Keeping Score

by J_Mads



Category: Elementary
Genre: Gen, Trauma, final girls have feelings too, two blowout fights for the price of one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24988381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Mads/pseuds/J_Mads
Summary: It’s finally time to talk about what happened that night. Or: two equally prickly people talk around, over, under, and through some complicated feelings.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Joan Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Keeping Score

**Author's Note:**

> post S-6, have fudged the timeline on returning from London for my own nefarious purposes. every couple of years i get the all-consuming urge to make two fictional characters come to some sort of conclusion about recovering from harm and learning to live with the mortality of their closest friends. for some reason i love to do this through yelling. i also think it’s fun when people who don’t have romantic feelings for each other become verbal contortionists to avoid saying “i love you,” even in the middle of having an emotional meltdown about the depth & vulnerability of that love.  
> enjoy!!

The three of them—Bell, Sherlock, and Joan—were seated around the table in the evidence room, trying, once again, to establish a timeline for their latest case. Every development seemed to come with a caveat, and they were all tired and ready for good news. Bell handed Joan a brown file. “CCTV footage shows him leaving at one A.M.”

“So he  was  lying,” Joan murmured, flipping through the photos. “At least about being in Greenwich...”

“Yes, he said as much,” said Sherlock absently. “Although he wouldn’t tell me if he had an account there...”

Joan’s head snapped up. “What? You spoke to him?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, now intently examining the crime scene photos. “Last Friday. He and some of his associates invited me to chat. Considering that they knew I have competing interests, I didn’t see the harm in taking their word for it.”

“Hold up,” Bell said. “You’re telling me that you willingly walked into a gang hideout?”

“Well, more of a restaurant, although in many cases they are basically one and the same...”

“Yeah, but either way, one of their guys threatened to kill you,” said Bell. “So  why  would you go in without backup?”

“When you say last Friday, do you mean when I was getting groceries?” said Joan, an icy note in her voice.

“In answer to your question, Detective, I wanted them to be able to speak freely. And yes, Watson, I believe you had stepped out for a few hours.”

“So you waited,” said Joan, cutting Bell off before he could speak. “Until I was out of the house.”

“I’m still trying to—“

“No, sorry, Marcus,” said Joan, interjecting in a clipped tone. She leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the table, her eyes narrowed. “I’m really, really looking forward to hearing the explanation for this.”

“I waited,” Sherlock said, in an overly careful tone, “because I knew you would insist on coming with me, and I didn’t want to expose you to that unnecessarily. They already know my face.”

“Are you crazy?” said Joan, rising from her chair. “You could have been killed!”

“Yeah, that was definitely not cool, but I feel like this is getting a little off topic,” said Bell, nervously.

“It’s not an unusually large risk,” said Sherlock, completely ignoring him. “You’re upset that I didn’t tell you. Is that it?”

“I don’t care about that!”

“Maybe not,” he said, patiently. “But however much you don’t want to admit it—“

“You have to tell me these things! And don’t say it wasn’t an unusually large risk! You had no idea what you were walking into, were you out of your fucking mind?”

“I’m gonna go get some coffee,” said Bell quickly, slipping off his desk and out the door.

“Is your memory so short,” Sherlock said, rising from his chair and visibly angry himself now, “that you forget a serial killer _broke into our home_ and nearly _murdered_ you a mere four weeks ago? Because however hard you’re working to appear to have forgotten,  I remember . Discovering you unconscious in our doorway was the worst—“

He broke off, overcome, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I was absolutely terrified that I had allowed that to happen.That you were almost accused of Rowan’s murder is a situation that is unlikely to repeat itself, but are you trying to say that you’ll never again come close to death because of our work? And that I shouldn’t try to prevent that eventuality?”

“Of course not! Of course I’ve thought about it, how could I not—“

“That’s right,” he said, triumphantly. “You’ve been thinking of little else these past few weeks.”

“Excuse me?” she said, incredulous.

“You’ve had trouble sleeping, you’ve been hyper-vigilant, irritable, neglecting physical exercise, neglecting your life outside of work more generally, and all the while,” he said, voice cracking under the strain of his disbelief, “hoping  _ I _ wouldn’t notice! You don’t have medical training to add two and two, Watson, but it is helpful that your symptoms have been  _textbook_. ”

“You’re making it sound like—like I’ve been—“

“Suffering from post traumatic stress disorder,” he finished. “Yes. And hiding it  incredibly poorly.”

“ _ What _ ,” Joan said, fists clenched at her sides, “does  _ any  _ of that have to do with the fact that you went behind my back to walk into A DEATH TRAP?”

“Oh, my g—I admit it was wrong!” he shouted. “I lied to protect you, which was wrong! Because I was afraid! But here I am admitting it, so why can’t you?”

“Oh, you want me to say it?” Joan spat. “That I was scared something could have happened to you?”

“No,” he said, breathing hard, as though restraining himself from something. “No. You’re having an outsize emotional reaction to a perceived threat to my safety, because you’re scared for yourself, so much so that you can’t even voice your fear. I should have brought this up sooner, but with everything—it would have been—I found the thought overwhelming. Perhaps you have as well.”

“This is not,” said Joan, her hands pressed to her forehead and eyes squeezed shut, “an overreaction.”

Her voice was tight, like she was on the verge of tears. “Maybe you’re right, about the other stuff, but you  _ can’t  _ do that to me, Sherlock, you can’t. We have to trust each other, or I don’t know what we’re doing here.”

“Okay,” he said. “Yes. I’m sorry. You’re right. I won’t let that happen again. I was selfish, and it was wrong of me. But on balance, would you  _ please  _ agree to at least trying a therapist? Someone who specializes in trauma? Just give it a try,” he said, holding both hands up, conciliatory. “A few weeks. A month. See what happens.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” she said, her arms crossed tightly. She was avoiding his eye.

“That’s right. It couldn’t hurt.”

“Okay,” she said, deflated. “Yeah, fine. I’ll try it.”

“ _Good_ ,” he said, and dropped back into his chair with weary finality.

Joan stood immobile. Outside the evidence room she could hear phones ringing, the murmur of people talking; she was sure the entire precinct had heard them. She felt suddenly drained, and pulled up her chair next to Sherlock, who was staring blankly at the evidence board and rubbing his face.

When she spoke her voice was ragged from shouting. “We haven’t gone ten rounds like that in a while, have we?”

“If we never do again,” he said, his voice muffled by his hands, “it’ll be too bloody soon.”

Joan snorted. “Yeah. Sorry I swore at you.”

“Mm. Sorry I shouted, but, you know, you did first. Shall we get Bell back in here, or do you think he’s left the country?”

Joan smiled and pulled her phone from her pocket to dial him.

“Hey, Marcus, you’ve got both of us. We’re done, you can come back.”

“Okay...everything good? No one’s gonna bite my head off?”

“No,” said Sherlock wearily. “All quiet on the western front.”

“Great. Give me a few minutes, I’m finishing up a report.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” said Joan, and hung up. Sherlock was watching her with an odd expression on his face. Joan raised her eyebrows.

“You could have said something to me,” he said. “I hope you know I would never dream of thinking less of you for this.”

Joan shook her head. “It has nothing to do with...I wasn’t ready. You can’t force these things, sometimes it all just has to...come out.”

“Quite,” he said, mouth twitching.

“Well, I learned from the best. At deflecting,” she added, in response to his quizzical look.

“That’s unfair.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Well, if you’re such an expert, maybe you can tell me what to do with the fact that I can never perfectly assure the continued safety of my loved ones?”

“You’re a recovering heroin addict,” she said, wryly. “You think I don’t ask myself the same thing?”

He sat up. “ _ That’s  _ unfair.”

“A little,” she admitted. “But it’s still true.”

He opened and then closed his mouth, dumbfounded. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“That makes two of us,” said Joan lightly.

*

Later, in the brownstone, they watched the original  _ Nightmare on Elm Street _ in the TV room after dinner. Joan sat cross legged in the armchair.

“I fail to see,” said Sherlock, one arm draped across the back of her chair, “how this could possibly be good for you.”

“It’s a movie,” said Joan. “It has a beginning and end. It’s contained.”

“Yes, but the subject matter—“

“Is it making you uncomfortable?” she asked, turning to him.

“No, no, I just thought it could perhaps hit a little too close to home. I mean, it is more or less a movie about a serial killer. If you wanted to watch a horror film, there are dozens of available options that don’t overlap so neatly with your own experience.”

“Just keep watching,” she said, turning back to the screen. Heather Lagenkamp was falling asleep in the bathtub, about to drown. “She’s gonna make it. You’ll see.”


End file.
